


Unspoken

by lesnuffles



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Kidlock, Speech Disorders, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 03:30:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2797937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesnuffles/pseuds/lesnuffles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fact of the matter was that Sherlock, who was ever nearing his second birthday, wouldn’t speak. Not one syllable, not even normal baby blubbering, had ever come out of his mouth. His mother’s attempts to get him to repeat words after her had been fruitless, and when his father tried to smile and ask him short yes or no questions, Sherlock just stared and either nodded or shook his head. “It isn’t that he can’t talk,” the last speech therapist that had him visited had said. “He just doesn’t want to.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> Freely based on "The Lost Language" of David H. Keller.  
> Thanks to **redherring** for beting!

When it was discovered that Mr. and Mrs. Holmes would be blessed with a second child, everyone in the neighborhood was absolutely delighted. Those who were lucky enough to be invited to Violet Holmes’ well-known tea parties agreed that she was the loveliest lady-of-the-house, and their first son, Mycroft, was the nicest, kindest, and funniest boy around. He was the kind of friend parents wanted their children to have.  
  
Mrs. Holmes’ pregnancy was the talk of the town, and soon people started visiting the Holmes Manor to give her their advice. They assured her of their support, and they donated toys and baby clothes as a sign of their affection.  
  
When little William Sherlock Scott came to life nine months later, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes threw a huge party and invited everyone around. Those present spent hours next to the baby’s cradle, looking in wonder and saying how beautiful he was—and a beautiful child he was, indeed, with blue-green eyes that reflected the sunlight and full, round lips, always sealed in a quiet smile as he looked up at his guests.  
  
In the following months, Sherlock grew. To the delight of his parents, he was the sort of child one could be proud of. Small black curls sprouted from his head, and he grew taller, his body well-proportioned. (“Our Myc used to be quite plump at Sherly’s age, didn’t he?” Mrs. Holmes would say, ruffling Mycroft’s hair affectionately.)  
  
Sherlock turned one year old. He was a calm child who hardly ever cried or complained; he merely listened silently to whatever his mother told him. He bore the endless visits of her guests, staring at them and, occasionally, returning their smiles and coos with a shy grin of his own.  
  
It was in his first year that things started to change. Slowly, month after month, visits started to dwindle. Guests were told that Sherlock was sick and that they should return later or expect a call. Mrs. Holmes’ proud smiles were soon replaced with worried frowns, and whenever Mr. Holmes looked at his youngest son, he only shook his head.  
  
The fact of the matter was that Sherlock, who was ever nearing his second birthday, wouldn’t speak. Not one syllable, not even normal baby blubbering, had ever come out of his mouth. His mother’s attempts to get him to repeat words after her had been fruitless, and when his father tried to smile and ask him short yes or no questions, Sherlock just stared and either nodded or shook his head.  
  
Sherlock understood everything he was told, that much was clear. He developed his own way to make himself understood, pointing at things with his small fingers, or just getting what he wanted himself. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes called doctor after doctor, specialist after specialist, but they all agreed that there was absolutely nothing wrong with him.  
  
“It isn’t that he can’t talk,” the last speech therapist had said. He’d come all the way from Ireland to examine Sherlock. “He just doesn’t want to.”  
  
When Sherlock turned three, the Holmeses gave in. “He’s still my wonderful Sherlock, whether he talks or not,” Mrs. Holmes would say when she explained the matter to her friends. Still, there were no more smiles or parties, and Sherlock’s silence felt like it had rubbed off on the entire house.

*  
 

Mrs. Holmes always took special care of her youngest boy. Everyone knew she had quit teaching her yoga class so that he wouldn’t have to stay with a babysitter.  
  
“It’s not a matter of trust,” she would say. “My little Sherly just needs extra care.”  
  
Her famous tea parties on Friday afternoons were postponed indefinitely, and her neighbors found it difficult to watch her walk around Hyde Park as she used to do so often.  
  
However, when Mycroft turned thirteen, Violet considered him old enough to take her place on occasion. She phoned all her friends, inviting them over again, and gave her oldest son precise instructions on how to treat Sherlock.  
  
On the first day he was to watch his little brother, Mycroft was more than a little concerned. Having seen his mother and her overprotectiveness toward Sherlock, Mycroft had never really spent too much time with him—not as much as he might have wanted to, anyway.  
  
He remembered his excitement when they told him he would have a little brother. All his friends at school at siblings, and Mycroft couldn’t wait to finally have one all of his own. He’d thought they would play all the time, and he’d been excited to teach him everything he knew. They were supposed to have a great time together.  
  
Unfortunately, that had never been the case. When Sherlock reached the age Mycroft had deemed an appropriate age for play, their parents had stopped allowing Mycroft  
to be alone with his brother.  
  
Of course, it was because Sherlock wouldn’t speak, but Mycroft didn’t see that as a problem. Most of the plans he’d had for them didn’t require Sherlock to say a word, and even the ones that did would have had a simple solution. But if their parents made such a fuss about the matter, it was probably more serious than Mycroft had thought.  
  
He was going to find out, Mycroft thought, and he wasn’t sure if he was worried or excited about it.  
  
Whatever the case, the first guest rang the doorbell at five o’clock sharp. Mrs. Holmes, who was wearing her best dress and had her hair done up by the hairdresser earlier that morning, quickly brought Sherlock to Mycroft before opening the door.  
  
“Quick, love, go with your brother,” she said before disappearing to greet the person at the door.  
  
Sherlock looked up at Mycroft, who blushed and hesitated a moment before speaking.  
  
"Here... let's go to your room, yes?"  
  
Sherlock reached out a hand, and Mycroft knew to hold it. Their hands together felt strange, but not unpleasant, and he lead Sherlock upstairs, slowly enough so that Sherlock could keep his pace.  
  
When they arrived, Sherlock let go of Mycroft’s hand and toddled to his bed before climbing in it and lying down, cuddling up with his beeshaped pillow.  
  
That was unexpected, Mycroft thought, confused. He thought he and Sherlock were going to do something together, instead of just… what was Sherlock going to do, sleep? Did he actually take a nap after lunch? It was a little late for that, now, but maybe…  
  
“Do you… do you want to sleep?” Mycroft asked.  
  
Sherlock just smiled, looking rather amused, and shook his head.  
  
“Then why are you…?”  
  
Sherlock giggled—it was the first time Mycroft had heard him do it, and he couldn’t keep himself from smiling—and hugged his pillow closer. Mycroft sat on one side of the bed, still not entirely understanding.  
  
Eventually, though, Sherlock let out an almost exasperated sigh, then glanced at the bookshelf next to his bed.  
  
It took Mycroft a full five seconds to get it.  
  
“Do you want to… do you want me to read you a book? Mummy always reads you a book before you go to slee—oh. _Oh_. So that’s why you’re… to make me understand—oh. Right.”  
  
Sherlock smiled, looking rather pleased as Mycroft stood and scanned the titles on the spines of the books. “Which one do you want?” he asked pensively. “What kind of stories does Mummy usually read to you? How do you feel about… _Grimm’s Fairytales_? Have you ever read this one?” The book looked almost untouched.  
  
Sherlock snorted loudly, and Mycroft paused for a moment before it hit him.  
  
“But if the book looks new, it’s not a story you’ve ever wanted to read, is it?” he said with a smile. It _did_ make sense, after all. “All right, let’s see which ones you’ve read recently. The Dr. Seuss stories are all creased; you must have read this one a thousand times. And… _Pirate’s Tales_. You like this one too.”  
  
Mycroft pulled both books from the shelf and set them on the blanket to let his brother choose. Sherlock hesitated a bit, then shook his head and opened the copy of _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ , pointing at the first page.  
  
Right under the title was a brownish stain. Mycroft pulled it closer to his face. “Chocolate?” Just to be sure, he smelled it, which made Sherlock giggle again. “It’s definitely chocolate, but why… oh, wait, isn’t it from the cake Mummy baked yesterday?”  
  
Sherlock nodded, this time visibly happy.  
  
“You read this one yesterday?” Mycroft continued. He couldn’t help but smiling when his brother nodded again.  
  
“So you don’t want to read it again today.”  
  
Another nod in agreement.  
  
Mycroft put the book back on the shelf, secretly feeling pleased with himself for figuring everything out. “Let’s go with the pirates, then,” he said.  
  
Sherlock smiled again, lying down and sucking his thumb, his bee pillow still pressed against his tummy.

*  
 

The evening had been such a success that Mrs. Holmes decided to make it a regular routine, which made everyone happy: her friends, who had missed her lovely tea parties and her even lovelier presence, and Violet herself, who could finally take a couple of hours a week for herself. Sherlock seemed to enjoy the afternoons with his brother, as well, but Mycroft was probably even more satisfied with their time spent together.  
  
Communicating with Sherlock was getting easier and easier for Mycroft, and that made the brothers closer than ever. It was, Mycroft learned, just logical; Sherlock had merely to point at an object or tilt his head in a particular way, and Mycroft was able to understand what he was trying to say.  
  
The ‘art of deduction,’ as Mycroft liked to refer to his newlydiscovered skills, was so much fun that he started to study in order to become even better at it. He read articles and books about body language, absorbing anything that could be of use to him.  
  
Sherlock followed Mycroft’s progress enthusiastically, giving him increasingly difficult things to deduce, and his brother never failed him.  
  
In only a couple of months, Mycroft was able to tell how Sherlock had spent the day by only looking at him. Their interactions became so much better that they could easily spend hours “chatting,” which consisted of Mycroft talking and Sherlock replying in his own, different way.  
  
For a long time, only the two of them knew about their mode of communication. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes simply accepted the fact that their boys had started to get along, and they were genuinely glad that Sherlock seemed to be much happier.  
  
One day, when Mrs. Holmes was hosting one of her tea parties, Mycroft showed up, heading toward the refrigerator. When Violet asked what he was looking for, he told her that Sherlock wanted a glass of apple juice. Mrs. Holmes told him that she was sure that Sherlock didn’t like it, but Mycroft just shrugged.  
  
“No, he loves it. He told me.”  
  
The guests nearly dropped their teacups, and Mycroft had a hard time trying to explain that while Sherlock didn’t actually _say_ he loved apple juice, Mycroft knew anyway.  
  
That was, more or less, the way Mr. and Mrs. Holmes learned about what was, to them, their children’s secret language, even if they never tried to learn its mechanics.  
  
“As long as it works for them, it’s fine for me,” Mrs. Holmes would say.  
  
And work it did. After a couple of months, Mycroft started translating Sherlock’s words to others. Finally, Sherlock was able to come out of his bubble of isolation. Things were going so well, in fact, that Mrs. Holmes finally resolved to send her youngest son to school, a decision she’d struggled with for quite a long time.

*

“What happened?” Mycroft asked slowly.  
  
Sherlock gave him a blank stare for a few seconds, then innocently raised his eyebrows, blinking twice. Mycroft’s lips twitched into a smirk. Playing dumb was one of Sherlock’s new favorite techniques when he didn’t feel like dealing with a conversation. Most people fell for it immediately. But not Mycroft.  
  
“Don’t use that trick with me, Sherlock,” he said, sitting down in the chair next to Sherlock’s desk. “You know what I mean. Also, as proved by the crisp packet in the bin, you actually ate the snack they gave you at the cafeteria. You only do that when you’re too upset to meet Mum and have her make you your milk and honey cereal. Therefore, something happened at school. What was it?  
  
Sherlock smiled shyly, confirming Mycroft’s belief that Sherlock had left the empty packet in obvious sight on purpose, hoping he’d make the connection. Mycroft couldn’t help feeling pleased with himself, and he tapped on Sherlock’s knee with one finger.  
  
“Tell me everything.”  
  
Sherlock ran toward him and leaped up, jumping into Mycroft’s arms, and cuddled against his chest. He sucked on his left thumb—a habit that, Mycroft had noticed, only occurred when Sherlock was nervous, as though he were trying to keep the words from escaping.  
  
Sherlock pulled a balled-up sheet of paper out of his pocket with his free hand.  
  
Mycroft took it cautiously. This would be his only clue, he knew—and a part of him felt excited at the challenge as he unfurled the ball.  
  
It only took a quick glance to reconstruct the morning’s events. The scribbles on the inside, the fold at the top, and the crease told Mycroft everything he needed to know. However, he decided to take the long way about it and pretend that he needed to go step-by-step. If there was anything Sherlock loved, it was to see Mycroft still struggling with a deduction, so he frowned as though he were still putting the pieces together.  
  
“This is a page from your notebook,” he said, faking a realization. “And you’ve tossed it away to give it to me.”  
  
Sherlock grinned, then scoffed with a roll of his eyes to emphasize how obvious it was. The little brat.  
  
Mycroft held back a smile before moving on. He pointed at the wellordered scribbles, which looked more like characters from another language, occupying an entire column before fading into lazy doodles.  
  
“And this,” he said. “This is your lovely handwriting.”  
  
Sherlock giggled. Those were the few occasions Mycroft was able to glimpse at what Sherlock’s voice might have sounded like, and they always seemed strangely precious to him. He waited for his brother to go silent again, his eyes open and waiting for the next step, before speaking again.  
  
“You’ve been pretending to write,” Mycroft said.  
  
Sherlock’s smile fell, and he looked at his brother anxiously, as though he were waiting for a scolding.  
  
Mycroft didn’t return the look; he was too focused on the paper. “You didn’t want anyone to see what you were doing. Looking at these scribbles, and the way you were holding the paper at the top, here… you were writing hunched over, to cover your paper. Like this.”  
  
He made a funny impression of Sherlock, bent down and looking around suspiciously as he scribbled onto his “paper” until his little brother burst into laughter. Mycroft smiled, pleased, and straightened his back.  
  
“And now… let’s see, why were you pretending to write?” Mycroft paused for a second. Sherlock started sucking his thumb again, his right hand grabbing his ear as he looked up at his brother. “You weren’t doing it for me, or Mum, or Father, because we all know you don’t want to. And all your teachers know, too. So it must have been for one of your classmates.”  
  
Sherlock blinked, still staring at him, not confirming or denying anything, which told Mycroft that he was right. He paused, choosing his words carefully.  
  
“You heard them, didn’t you?” he said finally. “You heard your classmates saying that you couldn’t write, so you pretended to do it to prove them wrong.”  
  
Sherlock looked at him, a guilty expression on his face.  
  
Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock,” he said slowly, “listen to me. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Not to me, not to Mum or Dad or anyone else—we all know that you just don’t want to. And it’s your choice. You’re smart, and if you want to, you would be able to talk and write a lot better than anyone else in your class. Better than anyone else in the world. Well, except for me,” he added.  
  
Sherlock smiled.  
  
“If you choose not to talk, that’s fine,” Mycroft continued. “No one can tell you differently. Your classmates—they’re all stupid. Their opinions hardly matter.”  
  
Sherlock stared at him for a second, then looked away. A bell went off in Mycroft’s mind—a lowered head, when complimented, may indicate disbelief. He filed the information away safely in his brain.  
  
“Everyone has things they don’t want to do,” Mycroft added. “Father doesn’t want to iron his own shirts, so Mum does it for him. Mum doesn’t want to talk with Claire’s mother, so she never invites her for tea. And I”—he lowered his voice—“I don’t want to be on my diet, so I steal slices of pie from the fridge.”  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth, eyes wide in surprise, and Mycroft grinned. “But lips sealed, all right?” he added in a whisper.  
  
Understanding the joke, Sherlock giggled again, cuddling closer to Mycroft’s chest and closing his eyes.  
  
Mycroft ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair. “You can stay silent for as long as you want,” he said softly. “It’ll be fine. You know why?”  
  
Sherlock lifted his head, looking up at his brother.  
  
Still stroking his hair, Mycroft waited for his brother to relax and close his eyes again.  
  
“Because I’ll always be your translator for the people too stupid to understand you.”

*

The girl on the swing pushed herself off the ground with her tiptoes, her hands clutching the chains. The squeaking sound of the swaying support broke the silence.  
  
"Why won't you be at Tom's tomorrow, Myc?"  
  
Mycroft, who’d been looking away, lost in his thoughts, turned toward her, waiting a second. "Mum invited a couple of Sherlock's classmates over. I have to stay there with him in case... he needs it."  
  
The girl snorted. She was sort of nice; soft, dark hair landing on her shoulders. Anthea, her name was. Once, during a break in primary school, she’d kissed Mycroft on the cheek and told him he was cute. Mycroft didn’t do anything but stare at her, confused, and she never did anything more.  
  
Steve, who was sitting next to him, chewed a piece of with his mouth half-open, his eyes scanning up and down Agnes, who was on the swing next to Anthea. “That’s a shame, Myc,” he said, shrugging a bit. “Tom’s parties are the best. You already missed the last two.”  
  
“Oh, well—” Mycroft started.  
  
"Couldn't your parents pay a doctor or something to do whatever it is you do?" Liza, the girl in front of them, asked, covering her mouth as she yawned as her other hand twirled one of her blonde curls.  
  
Mycroft straightened up on the bench. “No one else can do what I do. Doctors are too stupid for that.”  
  
Anthea grimaced, digging her heels into the ground to stop the swing. Her parents, Mycroft remembered a second too late, were both pediatricians. “It’s not that doctors are stupid,” she said bitterly. “It’s that your brother is weird.”  
  
Steve made a stupid face, and everybody laughed. Mycroft’s neck felt unpleasantly warm.  
  
"Sherlock's not weird," he muttered, his eyes fixed on the grass.  
  
Anthea rolled her eyes. “Come on, Myc, don’t start sulking. We’re just joking. You’re unbearable when it comes to your brother.”  
  
Mycroft didn’t reply, which Liza took as a cue to keep talking. “And you barely talk about anything else,” she scoffed. “Sherlock this, Sherlock that…”  
  
“What am I supposed to talk about, then?” Mycroft asked calmly, not wanting to get angry as he looked from one person to the next.  
  
Anthea smirked. “How about something we might be actually interested in?” she said, jumping off the swing with a little twirl of her skirt.  
  
Mycroft looked at her for perhaps a second too long. “Do we want to talk about, oh, I don’t know, why Steve gave you a ring he stole from his mother yesterday?”  
  
Anthea opened her eyes wide, and Mycroft realized a second too late that he didn’t mean to say it, but it was just _there_ , so obvious that he couldn’t help but point it out—  
  
“What?” Steve stood up, looking angrily at Mycroft. “What the hell are you saying, mate? I bought that thing—”  
  
“With what money, since you complained to me yesterday about being completely broke and not being able to afford a proper Valentine’s gift for her?” Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows. “It’s also a limited edition from twenty years ago, and it’s clearly been resized at least twice. It must be second-hand—literally.”  
  
Anthea was shaking with rage. She pulled the ring from her finger and threw it on the grass. “You’re a jerk,” she said, her eyes focused on Steve before she ran away.  
  
“What—no, Anthea, wait!” Steve glared at Mycroft, then added coldly, “Thanks a lot, Myc.” He chased after her, leaving Mycroft alone with Liza.  
  
She looked at him for a moment. "That wasn't a very nice thing to do," she said, frowning at him.  
  
"Neither was sleeping with Steve last night, considering that Anthea is your friend," Mycroft replied stiffly.  
  
Liza opened her mouth to reply, but instead, she stood up and walked away without bothering to wave goodbye.  
  
Mycroft stood alone in the middle of the park for a moment before headed toward home, kicking every other stone on the path.  
  
The day he discovered he could deduce other people just as easily as he could deduce Sherlock was the same day Mycroft Holmes stopped being considered the nicest, kindest, and funniest boy in the neighborhood.

*

The anger and pain from the spoiled afternoon still hadn’t dissipated when Mycroft finally got down. He’d almost ran all the way to his house, but he stopped his pace when he reached the front door, pausing to catch his breath before walking inside.  
  
He glanced into the living room; his mother was sat on the couch with Sherlock cuddled up in her lap. Mycroft muttered a vague, “Good afternoon,” in their direction, then headed toward his bedroom, hoping he’d been quick enough.  
  
He hadn’t been. Sherlock, of course, immediately noticed something was wrong, and he jumped off the sofa, rushing in his direction. Mycroft pretended to ignore him as he walked up the stairs, but he could hear Sherlock stumbling after him, struggling to keep up.  
  
With a sigh, Mycroft went into his room, leaving the door open so Sherlock would know that he was allowed to come in if he wanted to.  
  
Apparently, he did. Sherlock slipped inside, then climbed on Mycroft’s bed and sat there, legs crossed, staring at him, waiting for an explanation.  
  
But Mycroft didn’t know what to say. He sat in his desk chair, looking out the window next to him.  
  
“I don’t see how any of this is my fault,” he started, his voice shaking with rage. “It was so _obvious_ that Steve was cheating on her; I don’t know how everyone else missed it. And I just pointed it out. It’s not like I’m the one who did it; why are they all angry with _me_?”  
  
Silence. Mycroft heard nothing from over his shoulder, no hint that Sherlock was going to try to suggest an answer.  
  
“And that stupid ring—if Steve didn’t want anyone to notice, he shouldn’t have made it so blatant. They all think they’re so smart, tricking each other, but instead…”  
  
Sherlock was quiet. Mycroft glanced over at his brother, who was sitting still, his arms wrapped around his knees, looking at him, showing no reaction but a slow tilt of the head.  
  
“It makes me wonder how I ever managed to put up with people like that,” Mycroft went on, lowering his voice. “Was I that stupid, before? Maybe it was better when I couldn’t see everything. It’s only made things worse.”  
  
Sherlock just kept looking at him.  
  
“Are you even listening to me?” Mycroft said angrily. “What are you staring at? Why can’t you just talk like everyone else?”  
  
Still, silence. Sherlock blinked. Mycroft felt frustration rising up in his body, getting to the point of being almost unbearable. He stood up, kicking his chair. When he saw Sherlock startled, scared, he decided that he couldn’t care less.  
  
“You only make everything worse,” Mycroft spat out as he headed toward the door.  
  
He only made it a few steps before a small hand grabbed his arm to stop him. He turned to Sherlock, whose grip was as tight as his little fingers could manage. His blue eyes looked up at his big brother, wide and… wet?  
  
A lump formed in Mycroft’s throat, and he freed himself from his brother’s grasp.  
  
"Go away, Sherlock,” he growled. ‘I have to study.”  
  
Sherlock let him go. Mycroft didn’t look back at him, trying his best not to think about it.  
  
It was only several hours later, after having tried to read a book without being able to focus on it, that Mycroft looked at the opened Internet tabs on his laptop.  
  
He scrolled down the first page, which was a website he used frequently to study body language, behavior, and other things that were useful in order to understand Sherlock. He scanned the pictures, the text, before stopping in the middle of a sentence.  
  
… _during such occasions, a fixed gaze shows interested in the presented topic, while a tilt of the head is a common expression of sympathy.  
The search for physical contact—such as touching a knee or arm—is away to communicate participation in one’s emotions…_  
… _tears are an obvious indicator of sadness, but it may also be a sign of guilt and/or a request for forgiveness._  
  
Mycroft swallowed before burying his face in his arms. Failing Sherlock never felt worse.

*

As a result, Mycroft swore to himself, and to Sherlock, too, that he would never again make a mistake. From that moment on, he dedicated all his free time not only in getting better, but in becoming perfect.  
  
He memorized entire books by heart, using all the known techniques to improve his memory. He studied hour after hour, completely uninterested in anything that wasn’t his work. In fact, he studied so much that he slowly forgot to reply to his friends’ texts or attend Tom’s parties. After school, while everyone else walked home slowly, chatting, Mycroft just waved at his classmates and ran home. Very, very slowly, there were no more texts to answer and no more party invitations to decline.  
  
His reward, though, was the progress he craved for. Sherlock didn’t have to put forth any effort anymore for Mycroft to understand what he was trying to say, and Mycroft himself enjoyed being challenged with increasingly difficult deductions. Sometimes Sherlock’s company was more entertaining for him than for Sherlock himself.  
  
Sherlock, of course, was delighted. He and Mycroft were inseparable—where one went, the other followed, and thus Sherlock never had to worry about a communication problem with someone else. His excitement was Mycroft’s excitement, and that was worth all the silence and loneliness in the world.  
  
After one year, Mycroft didn’t even have to try to deduce anymore. He simply _saw_. He looked at his mother’s dress and saw where she’d been in the morning; he glanced around the living room and knew how many guests had been visiting the evening before, even down to their shoe brand and size.  
  
He noticed at the way Anthea and Steve both looked away as he came near, and he knew they were talking about him—and not in a nice way. Whenever he met Tom’s gaze, he could count all the parties that had been held without him. In Liza’s unspoken words, there was still a thick layer of hatred.  
  
When he realized he wanted to stop seeing everything, it was too late.  
  
People, behind their daily activities and politeness, became hypocritical under Mycroft’s scrutiny. Unfaithful wives, fake friendships, liars, cheaters—he saw them all, and it suddenly felt too much for a fifteenyear-old to bear with.  
  
He didn’t want to see anyone anymore, and Mycroft started to irrationally fear that other people would be able to read him, as well. Everyone would hate him if they knew what he thought about them—so he learned to hide it, to control every gesture he made, to never let his emotions hit the surface. Mycroft shielded himself from the world, but that only solved half the problem.  
  
Deducing simply wasn't fun anymore.

*

“I don’t _care_ what you think is best! I’m not going away!”  
  
“Myc, love, just think about it—”  
  
“University and graduation and fancy institutions just keep up the family name! I don’t care!”  
  
“Mycroft, lower your voice; you’re going to wake Sherlock up—”  
  
“ _I am not leaving!_ ”  
  
Mycroft glared at his mother, almost breathless. He wasn’t used to yelling; he’d never seriously argued with his parents before, and maybe that was why he’d caught them so off-guard.  
  
Violet sighed. “Myc, it’s for your own good. You deserve an excellent—”  
  
“What is something happens and I’m not here?” He clenched his fists so tightly that his fingernails dug into the flesh of his palm. “What if something’s wrong with Sherlock, and you can’t understand what it is?”  
  
“We’ll be able to figure it out ourselves,” his father said, massaging his forehead gently.  
  
Mycroft scoffed. “Yes, because you’ve been so great at getting it right up until now.”  
  
“Mycroft.” His father’s voice was low with an obvious note of warning.  
  
Maybe compliance would get him better results. Mycroft lowered his tone. “There must be closer universities. So I can continue living here.”  
  
His parents’ reactions weren’t the ones Mycroft had been expected. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes exchanged a look of “we have to tell him,” and Mycroft instantly felt nervous.  
  
“Myc, love.” Mrs. Holmes’ voice was soft, which could only mean it was bad news. “Your father and I talked about this, and we both agree that a bit of time apart will be good for both you and Sherlock.”  
  
The idea was so ridiculous that for a moment Mycroft wondered if he’d heard it correctly. He couldn’t think of anything to say in return—time apart would only be horrible for them, because how was Sherlock supposed to manage without Mycroft looking after him? Plus, he’d made a promise, hadn’t he? And promises were meant to be kept—  
  
“He’s growing up now,” Violet went on, “and if he’s always relying on you, how will he make it on his own? He has to learn how to live on his own strength, Mycroft. He’s a smart boy; he can do it.”  
  
Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn’t find anything to say. A sour, unpleasant weight fell down into his chest.  
  
“It’s great that you’ve taken care of him up to now,” Mr. Holmes added. “Really, we—are very thankful for what you’ve done. But now it’s time for Sherlock to learn how to figure things out on his own.”  
  
But Sherlock didn’t _have to_ learn, Mycroft thought. He didn’t have to worry about anything, because Mycroft was there, taking care of him, making sure everything would be all right. It was his job, wasn’t it? It was what he’d worked all his life to do properly.  
  
“You two have a wonderful relationship.” Mrs. Holmes’ voice tried to be comforting but definitive. “But he has to meet new people. Make friends.”  
  
“He doesn’t need other people,” Mycroft said, his voice even and a strange monotone. “He’s smarter than anyone else. We both are. Friends aren’t good for anything.”  
  
“Mycroft.” Violet closed her eyes for a moment. Mycroft could see how much she missed the child he used to be, the smiling boy who was always hanging around other people. Too late. It was too late now. “Your life is your life, and your father and I never argued with what you wanted to do with it. But what you’re doing is condemning Sherlock to a life of isolation, and he’ll follow you all the way there because he’s never known anything different.”  
  
Mycroft’s throat felt dry. _He_ was the one hurting Sherlock? All those hours he’d spent, learning everything he could, all his sacrifices to make himself better, was suddenly wrong? Wasted?  
  
“We know you didn’t mean to hurt him,” his mother added quickly, noticing Mycroft’s lower lip trembling. “But maybe it’s time for you to just… let Sherlock be.”  
  
Mycroft took a step back. His eyes opened wide in denial, and he swallowed the soreness in his throat as he ran away, climbing the stairs to his room and slamming the door loudly behind him.  
  
He’d never been one to cry, but in that moment, with his face buried in a pillow, he let the sob wrack his body. His cheeks were wet, and no matter how hard he tried to hold them back, the tears kept falling.  
  
It was only a few minutes later, when the bouts of sobs were relenting, that he heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor. His door opened, and Sherlock stepped inside, his half-awake eyes staring questioningly at Mycroft, his right thumb in his mouth.  
  
Mycroft sat up on his bed, swallowing down the last of his tears, and looked at his brother, his breath short. “Go away.”  
  
Sherlock didn’t move.  
  
“Go away, Sherlock!” Mycroft’s voice rose as he yelled, and Sherlock jumped. It’d been a long, long time since Mycroft had last yelled at him. But he just stood there, waiting for his big brother to explain.  
  
“It’s you,” Mycroft spat. The anger and frustration made his voice shake. “It’s you. It’s always you. It’s your fault; everything is. Now I have to leave and it’s all your fault.”  
  
Sherlock shifted his weight, uneasy. Mycroft felt horrible, more than he’d ever had, but he went on. Sherlock needed to learn, didn’t he? That’s what their parents had said. “You and your silence. People are getting tired of taking care of you.”  
  
 _He needed to learn. He needed to try to live on his own._  
  
“ _I’m_ getting tired of taking care of you.” Years spent hiding his feeling had apparently been useful, after all. Mycroft looked up at Sherlock, his face blank. “Why don’t you just grow up and deal with it like everyone else? Why don’t you just _talk_?”  
  
Sherlock was confused and frightened; Mycroft could see it in his eyes. His brother had, of course, always told him that it was Sherlock’s choice. And now? Of course it didn’t make any sense to him. Mycroft had never lied to Sherlock before, after all.  
  
“And now I have to go away,” Mycroft repeated, the idea making him feel sick, “and it’s all because you’re so weird. If you were just like everyone else, I could have stayed we’d have had a good time and—”  
  
Mycroft’s voice broke. Sherlock was crying, looking both lost and disappointed. He stood there for just a second longer, tears running down his face, before he ran away.

*

The day Mycroft was to leave was set for the next Monday.  
  
Preparations were made in a silent atmosphere; Mycroft had already packed on his own, and everything was ready on time.  
  
Sherlock hadn’t spoken to him all week. In fact, he hadn’t shown up at all. He spent all of Monday in his room, throwing fits and refusing to see anyone. Whenever Violet sighed, complaining about Sherlock not eating, Mycroft gave her a silent look of hatred.  
  
 _This is what you wanted._  
  
On Sunday evening, loud crashing noises were heard from Sherlock’s bedroom, and when his mother rushed upstairs to check on him, she found that he’d thrown all his possessions at the walls of his room.  
  
Monday arrived. Mycroft said goodbye to his mother, kissing her cheek while his father waited for him in the car. Sherlock wasn’t there.  
  
Mycroft hesitated—he’d already said a quick goodbye to him that morning, but he’d been sure that he was going to see Sherlock again before he left. He paused, then wondered if he should have gone back inside to look for him, but the look his mother gave him told him he should just get into the car.  
  
So he did.  
  
Mr. Holmes put the key in the ignition and turned it. Quick, small footsteps echoed in the house, but no one could hear it over the sound of the engine. The car started to move, and the front door of the house slammed open as someone ran out.  
  
And, finally, a scream.  
  
“ _Mycroft!_ ”  
  
Mycroft turned around, and from the rear window, he saw Sherlock’s red face as he screamed his name, his eyes wide with panic.  
  
But the car was already on its way.

*

  
 _Epilogue_  
  
The bell rang, and the pavement filled with children running out of the school building for the break. Sherlock watched them for a moment, then shrugged. His new classmates weren’t any more interesting than his old ones.  
  
He looked down at the sheet of paper he was holding. He took out a new crayon, his fingers already smudged with pastels, and continued drawing, a serious frown on his face as he concentrated on his work.  
  
''What are you doing?''  
  
Sherlock turned around, toward the source of the sound, and raised his eyebrows when he saw a kid from his new class standing next to him. He had short, blond hair and was wearing a soft, light beige jumper.  
  
After hesitating, Sherlock leaned back slightly so the boy could see his work.  
  
He smiled in approval. “It’s good,” he said. Without asking, he sat down next to Sherlock. “I’m John, by the way.”  
  
Sherlock continued drawing in silence. The boy, however, didn’t leave, despite what he’d been expected. Instead, John stayed there, his head tilted to get a better look at him.  
  
“I know who you are,” he finally said. “You’re Sherlock Holmes. A girl from the other class told me about you.”  
  
Sherlock looked up sadly. If the girl from the other class had told John about him, there wasn’t a good chance that the conversation would end well for him.  
  
“She said you don’t talk or write because you can’t,” John said.  
  
Sherlock’s lips thinned, and he kept drawing, trying to ignore him.  
  
“I don’t believe her,” John continued, his voice softer than Sherlock had expected. He looked over at John, who smiled.  
  
“Talking’s easy,” he explained with a shrug. “And writing, too. Anyone could do it.”  
  
Sherlock agreed. There wasn’t anything more ordinary than talking and writing, of course. Everyone talked all the time.  
  
“It’s got to be hard not talking,” John added, looking at Sherlock with genuine curiosity. “How do you manage to do it all the time?”  
  
Sherlock felt his cheeks turn pink and warm. He blinked twice, looking at John with both surprise and gratitude.  
  
John lowered his voice to a whisper. “My mum and dad yell all the time. My sister, too.” He paused. “I like a bit of quiet. Do you mind if I stay here and watch you draw?”  
  
Sherlock, of course, didn't mind at all.


End file.
